“She is very pretty, indeed, aunt, with a beautiful complexion.”
“Yes, this is true; but, somehow, her beauty is of a very common kind. Alice’s wasn’t; yours isn’t. You and Alice are alike, or were, only you have a better form for those who like dignity. And you have more courage: you are all Hedelquiver; she was half Monroe.”
“You estimate me very kindly, dear aunt,” said I, grateful for the cordial words and tones.
“Well, I like you, somehow, better and better every day. You are calm and strong, like your uncle. I always like to have such people with me, I suppose because I am so nervous and weak myself. Alfred is nervous, too, I think, although he commands himself perfectly.”
Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me—“Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.”
“Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”
Dismayed now, in her turn, aunt put in numberless disclaimers, which amounted to this—Why, she has heard, to be sure, that he does sometimes write very pretty poetry, and that some of it comes out in the “Tribune;” that, in fact, she has seen one piece with her own eyes—Paulina had it, she cut it out of the Tribune. But, for all that, he has as much energy and manliness as those have who never touch a pen but in keeping their accounts. She wouldn’t have me think, for a thousand worlds, that he is an effeminate, moon-struck young man. She hopes he will come up: she has no doubt he will while I am here, and then I shall see with my own eyes!
Yes, then I shall see, Edith mine, and then you shall hear about it. One thing troubles me—I fear aunt will be bumping our heads together every five minutes, in the way of making us like each other; that is, if he comes, as I presume he will by some device of aunt’s. If she does manœuvre in a way the least bit gross, I foresee—that I can live through it, to be sure, as one can live through every sort of vexation and grievance if one will. But I shall be very still, and very tall; and, moreover, so repulsive in various ways, that he will be propelled with something of a shock to the far corners of the room, as often as he meditates approach to me.
You should see how I thrive. The hardiest imp out at the red school-house on the corner, who does not once cease to turn sommersets, snow-ball, make pyramids and snow-images, and beat the snow from his iron-like boots, is hardly stronger, browner, hungrier than I am. For you see, I ride out often with uncle and aunt to call on substantial families, where are warm fires in two or three rooms, where great red and green apples and snapped-corn go round, if we can stay no more than fifteen minutes, and where, at any rate, a few lively jokes fly right and left, and a few earnest, friendly things are spoken, and promises of an early “visit” interchanged. We meet other sleighs, we pass them; they pass us, like lightning, with young village gents in them, and I am ready to go over the moon at the sound of the merry bells. Kate and I go up hill and down, let the weather be as it will. Yesterday, as if we were one feature of the storm, we went on and on, chasing the snow-clouds that were trooping over the fields and roads, and the snow-clouds that were trooping, chasing us. This morning it was still and splendid for a feathery hoar-frost clung to every branch and spray, and glittered in the early sun. It was stinging cold, as aunt forwarned me, the air “cut like a knife.” But I liked it—I felt it invigorate me every moment and prepare me for the rest of the day—for the rest of life; for I see it plainer and plainer, that every wholesome pleasure, and every wholesome sorrow, not the less, is such a preparation. Therefore, welcome all experiences, I will accept them as the loving child of Him who metes them out.
I am up early. This is easy for me here, for kitchen, dining-room and back-parlor are warm before six o’clock, and all in the house are moving. So that I write a great deal, and write well, as I believe you will say when you read what I have written. The publishers’ praise me and—pay me. Twenty-five dollars came from Philadelphia yesterday. Every cent of this (for I can have no wants of my own here) I shall send to my dear father. If he has only a few bits of silver in his purse, and no business, twenty-five dollars will go quite a long way in purchasing comforts. I am thine, dearest,